Even when paying homage to artists he admires, SoCal emcee Busdriver
can't help but let his irreverence show through. In 2005, some 15 years
after Public Enemy's Fear of a Black Planet, he released his own
Fear of a Black Tangent. An earlier album, This Machine Kills
Fashion Tips, plays off "This Machine Kills Fascists," the slogan
that once adorned Woody Guthrie's guitar.

Still, the artist born Regan John Farquhar (and whose father, Ralph
Farquhar, scripted the '80s hip-hop film Krush Groove) is too
intelligent and inventive to resort to Weird Al Yankovic parody. He's
much more inclined toward irony and derision, along with wicked
wordplay and a healthy dose of self-awareness.

On the opening track of the newly released Jhelli Beam, his
second album for Epitaph's Anti- label, Busdriver's opening volley is
an attention-getting assessment of his backpack-rap brethren: "Be
real," he intones, "conscious rap failed us." So much for his chances
of scoring an opening slot on Erykah Badu's next tour.

"No, actually, I'm gonna get that," he deadpans. "I don't know
— it was just some obnoxious shit to say at the time. I think
what I was trying to say is that, to me, conscious or any kind of
alternative rap's place as the moral foil to mainstream music has kind
of lost its bite. And I think I was doing that in the spirit of a
spoiled brat. Because that's what I am. Hip-hop has spoiled me."

But when it comes to Messrs. D, Flav and Guthrie, the 31-year-old
rapper is genuinely deferential: "Public Enemy pretty much invented, at
least in my mind, how you express disdain with public policy in a song,
especially in rap music. And later I discovered Woody Guthrie who, in
essence, did a similar thing, but with less of a direct approach. He
had a way more playful, whimsical slant on it. And I sometimes try to
strike the middle ground when I address those things in a song."

Kill your employer

Actually, Busdriver seems to spend less time seeking the middle
ground than swinging back and forth before extremes, frequently within
the same song. This is, after all, an artist who can rhyme
"recreational paranoia" with "kill your employer," and insist that
"even though you tried to put my face in a hot waffle iron, I still
know that you love me."

As on previous albums, he employs a rapid-fire delivery and
convoluted rhyme schemes, like some unholy offspring of Jamaican
dancehall deejay Bounty Killer and light opera savants Gilbert and
Sullivan. Asked which he found more influential, Busdriver says he
appreciates rap's debt to "old-school Jamaican toasters, but I never
really sought that out. So I would have to say the latter.
Unfortunately, I don't spend enough time with [Gilbert and Sullivan's
work], but I know what you're talking about and I do shoot for things
like that."

That said, he confesses to being disappointed by his own "sheer
quantity of verbiage" and says he'd prefer a "less convoluted"
approach. "It probably would be better for me and everyone else who
listens to my records."

But don't hold your breath. The new album's experimental bent and
breakneck pace manage to defy easy comparison: A more hyper-accelerated
MF Doom? A more art-damaged Busta Rhymes? There are even traces of
Frank Zappa's outlandish snark on tracks like "Scoliosis Jones," which
Busdriver says was inspired by an appearance at Austin's South by
Southwest festival, "watching aged roadies develop these humps in their
back from constantly loading in and loading out these fucking huge
guitar and bass amps."

Puppet on parade

As befits the son of a screenwriter whose credits range from the
lily white Happy Days to the predominantly black South
Central, Busdriver also makes videos that are bizarrely eclectic.
The latest, "Me-Time (With the Pulmonary Palimpsest)," features an
oversized, rapping robo-puppet whose self-destruction — at a
kids' birthday party, no less — falls somewhere between the
Terminator and the Muppets.

Stranger still is a recent promo video in which Busdriver is given
the keys to the apparently all-white town of Avalon, Pa. Busdriver
isn't actually from Avalon, but his filmmaker friend is, and also
happens to be the mayor's son.

"He was able to entertain his son's wacky and ambitious film
project," says Busdriver who, during the course of the ceremony, was
also given a hat from the local police department and a T-shirt from
the captain of the Avalon volunteer Fire Department. "I sobbed openly
and uncontrollably several times that day," he recalls.

But the crowning moment was yet to come: In the closing moments of
the ceremony, Avalon's hip-hop honoree was presented with a special
commemorative baseball, signed by each and every member of the local
Little League team.

"I still have that autographed ball," he says wistfully. "Actually,
I'm looking at the back of it, and it's got one of the kids' moms'
phone numbers on it."